The code belongs to a Hotpoint dryer; You’ll find out nothing if you look it up through the sky in the screen, the vault of exchangable passion, Vertigo at the horizon prostrate as an outstretched cheek; but in the mouth that grows in capacity behind that overflow, Nobody can take away the word for it: love, the end until death; TL61P its provisional perfected shadow opposite; Now go back to the start.Anemal, utter meck. Three daughters, two hens, one puppy, one geologist, hot pepper and rot to ghost my nose awash in silent waves, but whatevz — i’m here now, passing out of another study on young black queer male[ish] suicides,~~~X X X X X X X~~~, an isotonic rehydration sport drink, the Coca-Cola corp, the Rainforest Café.Over overThrow there is nothingBut the Unlikely a-Voidance of all rays, of all right. For a chorus is incarcerated in every point of space. Think, thank, thunk: from the vulgar Latin meaning undergo, meaning transmogrify, “just like a person with a device” because she doesn’t have one — snomal slebs socru deeibs sbieed mayrac caryem — “As if the so-called world were seriously the point, which it is, and we could actually live in it, which we do.”

More or less. What do I remember? I remember Jim Carroll had a really huge cock, and I remember having great conversations with Lee Harwood. Frank O’Hara and John Ashbery would go out to dinner and joke hilariously about New York City. I was interested, but I never thought I would be in that. I liked their poetry, and I was happy about that aspect of things. Here I was in a room full of poets. I have to tell you about my funny John Ashbery story. I was at a buffet table in New York City, and somebody pinched my ass and it was John. He said: “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were a guy.” What did I say? I just laughed. Oh, and when I worked at Fry’s my coworker said Suge Knight liked her hairy legs, she said he bought the diamond necklace she wore every day, and my sister bumped into Hugh Hefner once at a sushi bar called Geisha House in Hollywood he really had on a purple crushed velvet jacket and he really did say Hey honey. She just wanted some California rolls fer Crissakes. But the greatest guide throughout is Fanon. Fanon’s “situated thinking, born of a lived experience that was always in progress, unstable, and changing,” provides a model of “critical thought” that was “aimed at smashing, puncturing, and transforming” ... His was always a “metamorphic thought,” and as such an ever-present and ever-relevant guide through the ruins of ... fuck, name something that isn’t ruined. Anything. Please. But why start with a self-reflexive question? Dusk begins my day, and continues in lengths,

They say when you encircle the entire field, red baby becomes white grandma

The bloodshot eye opens deep in the ground

which reminds me of the title, not the contents, just the title, of Kim Yideum’s “The night before opening a Barbie repair shop in an abandoned mental hospital” ... which reminds me of that something “crawling with things that go missing”, of fat rats in swamps and temples, I mean,

“What the hell did this used to be? What a piece of junk. No need for a processing fee, because nobody will claim this package. This flotsam, which used to be some sort of organism, is quite political.”

It is a face which hiccups ‘self /object’ while sheathed in PLAY-DOH, exactly like “what’s there when you snap a heavy blank book shut on life and then prise it open again.” Zam, Bonk, Dip. Speaking of flotsam, remember when Achilles said, “Glorious Odysseus: don’t try to reconcile me to my dying. I’d rather clean as many Porta Potties as there are sands on all the world’s beaches with my tongue, and be alive on Earth, than be lord of the lifeless. Being dead sucks”?

Livia says bread is in the nose and throat.

So what is a crypt? Not a crypt in general, but this one, in its singularity, the one I shall keep coming back to? The form of this question will henceforth precede those that, ever since philosophy began, have been called first: what, originally, is a Thing? What is called Thinking? The Wolf Man's Verbarium (here I’m vaulting ahead) indicates that the Thing is to be thought out starting from the Crypt, the Thing as a “crypt effect.” The Verbarium no longer conforms to any law and order ... What is a crypt? ... It must be designated immediately as the very condition of the whole enterprise, its element and its method. Instead of claiming to have access to this crypt through the ordinary meaning or common figure of a crypt, we must bend with a movement that it would be too simple, linear, and unilateral to think of as the opposite of that type of access, as I hastily described it above, as if, by anasemia, the movement consisted of going back toward the rightful place and the proper meaning from out of this crypt. Nevertheless, it remains that the question “What is a crypt?” can no longer, it seems to me, be posed. What is a crypt? What is a crypt?

A blind bear biting my pumpkin.

Which is to say that last night, I spent half an hour with “Fearless Girl,” the bronze sculpture created by Kristen Visbal and installed by State Street Global Advisors (SSGA) on Wall Street for International Women’s Day. I watched people pose for photos with her in nonstop succession — young and old, male and female, literally everyone wanted their picture taken with “Fearless Girl.” I listened to a young man compare “Fearless Girl” to his sister. I got yelled at by a group of photo-takers for blocking the view of “Fearless Girl” confronting the “Charging Bull.” I heard a man who was shooting a long exposure of “Fearless Girl” strike up a conversation with a nearby woman about the sculpture. “It’s complex,” he said. “It IS complex!” she exclaimed. Another man joined the conversation and offered that “Fearless Girl” was “pretty profound.” Oh dear god. SSGA is the world’s third-largest asset manager. But don’t worry about the contradictions of capitalism — “Fearless Girl” will sublate them! She has, as a visitor commented last night, “no doubt” and “no fear”! Therefore, before we even look at the Kamaitachi images, I want to stress the importance of distinguishing them from staged photographs. Hijikata is a man who can transmogrify in an instant into a phantasmagorical bird. Then, voluntarily or involuntarily, we may reach the lights of purgatory, for which we have yearned. So what are kamaitachi? My father was a country doctor, and several times I saw farmers, claiming to have been bitten by one, carried to the threshold of our house. But no one bore a grudge against that invisible weasel. In fact, a family of actual weasels made their home in the loft of the thatched shed. Hairy vacuum! Bloody vacuum! Biting vacuum! The excrescence will head for the huge void, and vice versa. The vacuum theater, too, is part of the

ahh and then oh

And so police use force indiscriminately against the crowd, which produces exactly the chaos and disorder that police attribute to the crowd, which in turn rationalizes an expansion and constant escalation of police violence. The image I saw was not some insubstantial reflection of a corporeal thing, as a crude dualist might hold, but literally the universe itself. Somehow the world manifested as an impossible curve. My mind swam in the sensory vortices. I felt I was being dragged down into a superabundant luminous abyss. There was no respite for hours, and I was overcome with a terrible anxiety, unable to subdue this incessant and grotesque violation of every last one of my nerves. So I sequestered myself in the darkest room of my house and pulled all the curtains, battened down the windows and painted the walls black. I would stay there until I felt safe once more. I cancelled my lectures and arranged for food to be delivered. For many days I languished in the homespun night. After three years I emerged. The double-sided curvature greeted me. Not only could I see again, I could see sight itself, hear hearing, and touch touching. In the process of achieving this result Peirce and Jastrow not only pioneered the field of decision theory but also laid down the foundations for the rigorous validation of experimental psychology through randomized control trials. Though the paper does not explicitly acknowledge any philosophical implications, and is mostly an account of an innovative experimental setup and a sober explanation of its results, it clearly bears on the “continuum,” which is a problem found at the very inception of Greek philosophy, expressed in the antithesis of the One and the Many; the proto-synechistic Heraclitean principles of the Doctrine of Flux and the Unity of Opposites; the dialectical articulation of the discrete and continuous in the Eleatics, and the speculative refutation of this apparent dilemma in the atomism of Democritus and Leucippus. It is central to the Platonic notion of the indivisibility of ideal forms, as well as to Aristotle’s formulation of the categories, and his distinction between actual and potential infinity. By putting two quantities into continuous correspondence the Greeks could calculate a variable quantity, so that for example motion could be determined as a factor of distance and time. However, this was restricted to extensive magnitudes (such as mass or volume), so they did not allow for the computation of a variable quality such as brightness or loudness, and the intensive as such was considered unquantifiable. Stay us wherefore in our search for righteousness, O Sustainer, what time we rise and when we take up to toothmick and before we lump down upown our leatherbed and in the night and at the fading of the stars! For a nod to the nabir, etc. Cropherb the crunch-bracken shall decide. Or not. Onto the floor of the stage, Gozo began to spread a collection of fetish objects: stapler, pebbles, hammer. All the while he chanted and rang a little sheep bell hanging from his neck. He began to unroll a long copper scroll along the floor. The volume of his chanting increased.

“soft flames of the earth’s surface “= mu “no, I don’t like this and I’m rephrasing it “I felt like a most courteous, giant tree “ri-ri-gya (reversing the syllables “here, this narrow road, where does it lead? “was it a trifle recidivist of me to choose Ornette?